


Shouting

by Withstarryeyes



Series: Soft College Boiiis [5]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Apologies, Artist Steve Rogers, Fighting, Happy Ending, Howard Stark's A+ Parenting, Howard Stark's Bad Parenting, Hurt Tony, M/M, Steve fucked up, Steve regrets, Tony Feels, dizzy - Freeform, fight, steve is an idiot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-29
Updated: 2018-10-08
Packaged: 2019-07-20 07:58:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16133006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Withstarryeyes/pseuds/Withstarryeyes
Summary: Steve's mad about something not even related to Tony but he takes it out on him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So sorry this is late!!! Some things came up yesterday with college and I know it's not an excuse but I'm really sorry I didn't get this up last night. I hope you like this part.

Numb, it’s how Steve would describe the way he was feeling, on the couch, guilty heartstrings pulling his gaze back to the bedroom door time and time again. He’d messed up big time and now Tony wasn’t speaking to him, now Tony wasn't speaking period. He briefly considered calling Rhodey but he’d rather save himself the berating lecture that would follow. He never should have said it in the first place, especially not over dishes. It didn’t matter that he was tired and he’d had a hard day. Didn’t matter that he got his ass chewed out by Coulson for an hour after practice, berating him for not leading properly, not running fast enough, being clumsy and distracted. Didn’t matter that he was in a sour mood when he got home and an ever sourer one when he spotted the mountain of dirty dishes in the sink, mocking him. 

“Hey, Steve,” Tony had greeted, appearing in the doorway of his lab, hair slick with grease and hands marred by black. He looked tired and pale but happy, Steve could see nuts and bolts littering the ground. His glasses were off, and Steve wondered briefly if he was blind or wearing his contacts, long sleeved t-shirt slipping off his shoulder, hands tangled in the excess fabric dangling by his fingertips. 

He had blown out an angry breath, muscles tense, feet aching from the day. “Can you do the dishes like I asked you to days ago?”

“I was just going to head to bed, I’ll do them tomorrow.”

“Tony,” his tone had been harsh, harsher than usual, harsher than necessary. He had watched Tony freeze in that way that only abused children and animals did. Like he was snared, caught in something. But he still pushed forward. “When we moved in together we agreed to share the chores,” he had steamrolled right over Tony and his emotions, right over the thin line of boyfriends and hurting, “I know you had a maid to do this all for you when you grew up but where I’m from we all worked in the household. I asked you to do this days ago and you decided to disappear to work on your AIs instead of taking what? 20 goddamn minutes to just soak them in water and rinse them off.”

Tony flashed from guilty to angry in seconds. “Just because I grew up rich doesn’t mean I didn’t do anything. I did chores, I took care of my mother. I might not have had to do the dishes but I knew how to sweep up glass before I was 10, I knew how to conceal bruises by my teens and I knew how to suture cuts long before college. I paid for my lifestyle, I don’t need you making me feel guilty for it.”

He had slammed his hands down on the counter, eyes glowering, thrumming with misplaced anger. “Damn it Tony, can it not be about you for 2 seconds?” He did what he never should have, told Tony that he was being narcissistic, arrogant. It was what everyone wrote him out to be, a spoiled rich kid, progeny of the wonderful Howard Stark. Tony had fought long and hard to get that image out of everyone’s minds, but he had never had to fight Steve on it. Steve had always seen right through it, seen the brilliant genius that was two cents shy of a mental breakdown and had the softest smile in the universe. And he had done what he’d promised himself he never do. 

“Tony,” He’d tried backwheeling but it was already too late, the door slamming shut on his panic.

“Sleep on the couch,” was Tony’s muffled rely, five minutes later and sounding suspiciously wet. 

And here he was hours, later, guilt still thick in his chest, scene playing over and over in his mind. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By popular demand!! A resolution :) I hope you guys like this!! I had fun writing it

He sleeps alone on the couch and guilt is a cloying film over his teeth and tongue when he wakes up, sun intruding through the window. Tony’s door is still pointedly closed and Steve rubs his eyes, drags a hand through his blonde hair, not caring that it looks like a mess or that he’s sure his cheeks are red and puffy from sleep and tears.

His fingers itch for something, the laden weight of his sketchbook or the comforting density of a cup of coffee. He glances at the door, secretly, like a pining teenager, then sighs and wraps his hand around the car keys, grabbing a jacket and tugging on converse to go drive somewhere, anywhere. 

He ends up outside of the coffee shop Tony works at and he’s through the doors before he can stop himself. Bruce is working behind the counter, curls coiling in lightning sparks around his head, looking tired and worn.  

“Steve, what can I get you?”

“What’s Tony’s favorite when he’s on shift?” Steve practically begs and Bruce stills, spinning around, forearms exposed from his rolled up flannel. His eyes scan over Steve’s face, land on his nervously wringing hands, and ping back up to anchor him to the spot. 

“Depends, what did you do?” Steve deflates so fast he’s woozy and he comes back, dizzy and panting, with Bruce holding onto his elbow. 

“Jesus, Steve, have you eaten lately?” His brain lets the words flow through like air, whooshing out without leaving anything behind. 

His tongue is clumsy and thick but he manages a quick, “Not since lunch yesterday.”

“Shit Steve. You know Coulson would crucify you for that. You have such a high metabolism, don’t you eat like 5 meals a day? Sit I’ll bring you out a muffin.”

“Don’t need it, please Bruce. I know he likes black coffee but what does he get when… he wants something special? I messed up, I need a peace offering.”

“We’ll talk about it once you’ve eaten, especially after practice yesterday. Coach ran you ragged.”

Helplessness pinches the back of his mouth, sour saliva filling up his molars and leaking over his tongue. He sits anyway, feeling tired and broken and admittedly, a little lightheaded. He closes his eyes and thinks about what he could do, what he could say, how to make it up to Tony. He opens them when something moist and small is placed into his hands, his fingers are coated in the top of a pumpkin muffin. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs around a bite, feeling it burn on the way down and crackle and moan in the pit of his stomach. God, he’s miserable. 

“So,” he starts when Bruce stays purposefully quiet as he finishes the muffin, cutting off all his attempts to start until the muffin is just a crumpled wrapper in his hand. It fights his stomach and pain is already spreading out to collect in the deep pits of his hips, hot and sick. 

“He really likes the gingerbread lattes, he’s been hoarding the syrup since last Christmas. Sometimes he’ll even put it into a chai latte to make it a little spicier. But, Steve,” he waits for Steve to meet his gaze and he does, reluctantly, still feeling guilty and broken, “He’s gonna want more than just a coffee.”

“I know,” Steve says, watching the cars rush by outside, blissfully ignorant of the world around them, “but I need to give him a reason to open the door.”

He doesn’t need it, he finds, when he opens the door to the apartment, stale bread and oil filling his nose. Tony is curled up on the couch, blanket draped over his shoulders. He’s in his own clothes for once and the tank-top he’s wearing shows his pale sides, the abs people wouldn’t ever know he has peeking through the side. He’s got his glasses on but they’re smudged with grease and his hands are almost black with filth. He’s got eyes that are 48 hours tired and Steve winces, setting the cup down and backing up a few steps when Tony’s head whips around at the noise. 

He gets up hastily as if he’s been caught and Steve winces, feeling his words catch on the back of his throat, snared in the sharp tips of his canines, lost on his taste buds, rushing out like a blurted prayer, “Tony, don't.” It’s so soft and filled with grief that Tony stalls. 

He takes the chance to inch closer, still too far for his own comfort but knowing that Tony didn’t like to be physically close to anyone at times like these. His black smudged glasses look a little too much like a black eye and Steve feels the guilt rear in his stomach again, pounding at his ribcage, forcing its way to thrum in his heart. 

“I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. I don’t know where it came from, I’ve never thought of you like that… all arrogance and no heart. I was tired and stupid and nothing excuses it. I’m really sorry, I brought you a gingerbread latte if you want it. And if you want me to leave I will.”

Tony moves to take the cup from his hands and Steve tries to catch his eyes, failing until he’s taken a few sips out of the cup, anger bleeding out from his shoulders with each draw of liquid. Steve holds his breath, the dizziness back and arching across his body like a poison. 

“No, stay please?” Tony says, and Steve nods, ashamed. 

Tony goes back into his room but leaves it cracked and that’s all Steve can ask for. He cooks dinner, lasagna, and garlic bread, wine in glasses and Tony emerges a few hours later, hungry and shy. He’s back in one of Steve’s old turtlenecks, tan fabric dark against his pale skin. 

He doesn’t say that he’s forgiven, it’s something Steve has learned. He’s never found a way to say you’re forgiven without insinuating that what happened was okay so he doesn’t ever say anything. But the night ends with Tony curled up in his arms, TV on and there’s still glass shards between them, pricking at Steve’s tongue whenever he tries to speak, but it’s progress. It’s all he deserves, really and he knows by the morning Tony will be back to normal. He thinks a lot that he doesn’t deserve Tony, that he’s a hundred times too lucky, being chosen, then wanted, then forgiven. But the thoughts are driven away by the cold press of Tony’s nose against his chin and the light, soothing brush of his lashes on his Adam's apple. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi guys! I made an email if anyone wants to send in fanart, or even just prompts that they don't want to put into comments. Feel free to use it, just send your stuff to writetheskyaway@gmail.com. I'm glad you guys are liking this series so much!! I really love writing for it. As always, if you liked this and want more please leave a kudos or a comment and feel free to leave me prompts! I like listening to what you guys want.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, it's gonna be a few days until I post the next one of this series, sorry but I have several projects due soon. Thank you for your patience and if you want more of these please leave a kudos or a comment. Feel free to leave me prompts too, I love using them!!


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